


everybody's in the play

by the_bumbly_bee



Category: Lovecraft Country (TV), Lovecraft Country - Matt Ruff
Genre: Might not, Vague History, Yee Haw, bon appétit, can you tell which parts were rushed, cowboy!tic, freeman family feels, i dont know the first thing about cattle ranching do not @ me, i promise there's things between the lines, just squint real hard, might edit later, playing fast and loose with the american canon, teacher!leti, uh, vague geography, vague writing, wild [mid]western flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bumbly_bee/pseuds/the_bumbly_bee
Summary: It had been four years, and nearing on five, since he'd beheld the long and winding road heralding old familiar planes
Relationships: Atticus "Tic" Freeman/Letitia "Leti" Lewis
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	everybody's in the play

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated, as always, to the lccu
> 
> [i own nothing of Matt Ruff's or Misha Green's]

Atticus canters across the winding Red Drive leaving puffs of dust in his wake, one hand pulling out a kerchief to sponge the sweat off his brow.

High noon o'er the South-Side, he tells Major wryly. The mare snorts and, eager to escape the midday heat, picks up a brisk trot.

* * *

He holds onto his uncle a few seconds more when George pulls him in for a long due embrace.

* * *

So, what's it looking like out there? he asks through a mouthful of beans, and George sighs long and deep, swirling the dregs of his coffee before explaining the headache that is the Freeman Ranch.

That bad?

Your father, he-

Left.

-tried his best. Atticus-

Don't wanna hear it, he cuts, hand poised knife-like over the cold plate of eggs between them. Just tell me where I need to start.

Well...the house could do with some cleanup.

Atticus nods, starting a mental list to bring to the General.

There're plenty fences what need mending, mostly on the west side - we can get Sammy's boys to help. The barn too, but the hay needs to be turned out first, poor animals ha' been rolling around in- well. Storehouses need to be reinforced, but thankfully no-one's had a mind to steal anything - least the name still carries some weight around here.

Berrys aren't so mild-mannered as people think, Atticus offers.

George rolls his eyes.

Let's see...ah. Stables need a new gate, and the roofings all rusted through in some parts so we'll have to-

Rotted? Do you mean rotted through?

George looks up from his notepad, regarding his nephew through crooked spectacles, considering short tempers.

Mo- your father...patched up the breaks in the wood with some corrugated-

Damn lazy sunuva-

_Atticus!_ his uncle hisses, jerking a thumb at the door to the parlor where his Aunt was moving about. He matches George's glare; the older man looks away.

We can draw up a better list later - I'm sure there was plenty I missed. Oh, and one last thing, I called on Constance Motley's boy - you remember James? Anyway, he'll be round first thing. Best to settle in so we can head down-

I'll go there now, Atticus stands, taking his plate to the sink and walking back to an incredulous uncle. He makes for the door.

Son, you don't need to-

Atticus pulls his hat from the hook rack, dusting off the top before donning it as he opens the front door.

I'll see you in the morning Uncle George. Thank you, Aunt Hippolyta!

* * *

Major grazes in the one good patch of grass behind him as Atticus throws a rock the size of his palm at the door of his childhood home. 

Then another.

Then one more.

Alright girl, he says, dropping the last stone in his hand with a lazy flick of the wrist.

Let's get to work.

* * *

Half the town is closed up for the night by the time Atticus stops outside the General Store. He takes two steps up the porch, pauses for the wave of nostalgia that knocks the breath out of his chest, then pushes through the door, little chimes above ringing soft and clear.

Guess half a decade doesn't do much. He takes in the four long double rows that cut across the wide room, like trenches, he thinks, strolling through the aisles.

_Smith's Canned Beans._

_Buttermilk Biscuits._

_Quaker Oatmeal._

Atticus runs a hand across the shelves and reads the labels of every item, each one inspiring memories of neatly packed lunches and days spent sitting with a book under the great oak in the schoolyard, alternating between reading the page and observing the children around him.

Would ye quit yer _lurkin_ ' man-

The corners of his lips tug up.

Atticus rounds the corner and is greeted with the mass of brown hair that is Mr. O'Malley, the most infamous Irishman in their little township. He notes the streaks of silver that fleck his unkempt beard, shining in the dim light that hangs over his head. One change in five years, Atticus muses; he'd long held the belief that come what may, the General Store would outlast them all simply by virtue of Irish grit.

The hell're ye covered in all tha' _dirt_ for? the old man grumbles.

Cleanin', Atticus replies as he approaches, laughing at the irony before fishing for the folded shopping list in his shirt pocket and sliding it across the counter underneath a stack of bills. The shopkeep looks down.

Any other would've doubled back in shock, looked at him with buggy eyes, exclaimed _and just where in the hell did you get all of this damn money from, boy?_ and demanded he come clean then and there so help him God.

_Humph_ , says Jack O'Malley.

Atticus smiles. When should I come by to pick these up?

Gi' me boys a couple days an' I'll send 'em over yer way - wagon's bein' used up north-side.

He nods, folding his wallet back into his pocket.

Good evening Mr. O'Malley.

Humph.

* * *

You weren't kidding...is what James says to no-one in particular the first thing next morning, craning his neck around the house and turning about the room for a moment before taking the seat Atticus offers him.

Upstairs' still got some work ahead, but I figured I'd do that some other time.

And with _help_ , his uncle scolds.

Atticus has the decency to look somewhat sheepish as he pulls out a stack of ledgers and sets them out neatly, blowing air as he surveys his work. He puts his glasses on and rests his arms akimbo, nodding towards the three piles crowding the table.

This shouldn't take too long, should it?

The lawyer hesitates.

Atticus groans.

* * *

Denmark Vesey's brims with wave after wave of patrons, so much so that Atticus attempts to excuse himself no less than four times within the first hour. James, however, proves to be as persuasive as he ever was - memories resurface of deals made in the schoolyard, of his lunch swapping hands with the latest book James...borrowed from his parent's collection - and somehow convinces him to set up shop in the back room.

Water, he says when the waitress asks; James scowls and orders another round of gin slings.

They start by talking over the day's business - James slurring here and there on tangents on the most absurd of property laws - and slowly progress to more informal nonesense. James catches him up on South-Side gossip and all the ways their neighbor's lives unfolded in the years he was away, and Atticus is surprised at his genuine interest. That he avoids asking about his time away, Atticus is grateful for; he returns the favor by refraining from inquiring after his companion's novel-writing ventures.

It's halfway through James' detailed recant of the incident involving the Parry sisters and an evidently visually challenged cowboy that his heart jumps to his throat, eyes zeroing in on a familiar short bob weaving between the crowd. His feet thrum, body moving to rise ahead of him, pulse hammering in his throat as he takes a fortifying gulp of water and drops the glass with a sharp thud, surely, _surely_ -

A round of cheers erupts as Tamara Penny drinks her companions under the table. Atticus sits back down. 

So what's next for you Freeman? says James, oblivious.

Atticus thumbs the lip of his glass, willing his thoughts elsewhere.

O'Malley's boys are coming by Thursday latest, gonna try and clear as much of the landing as I can. Top floor will have to wait.

You didn't ask Barkley for help, did you?

He shakes his head no; James raises his glass.

Good. I can't stand the thought of having to see that ugly mug. Damn idiot's always bringing trouble to me, beggin' for help after he done carried on with some woman or other - as if I can protect him from the bullet of an angry husband. Anyhow, I have a cousin, nine and whip-smart. Can't carry too many things o'course but he's good with errands and the like. I'd hire him myself but, be honest with you, I'm sick of baby-sittin'.

Atticus hums, grateful.

A glass shatters the calm, a few voices holler, and through the foggy haze rings a shrill voice, loud and clear-

Damn you, _Barkley_!

Baby I- 

Don't you _baby_ me, _Seymour_!

James whoops in delight as they watch Missy Maybel clock the man square in the jaw with a sure fist, sloshing his gin all over the table when he joins in the thunderous cheers. The lanky man staggers back, and Atticus wonders if he's more offended by the bruise on his pride or the shiner that's sure to mar his beloved face. They watch as a pair of burly men hoist him by the arms and drag him kicking and shouting through the doors and out into Main Street. James swigs a shot.

Why your uncle suffers him I don't know.

Hm, he's got his uses. I suppose.

You know he goes by 'Tree'?

Like the oak?

Like the number.

Atticus chokes on his water.

* * *

He's only half-drunk by the time Sammy sweeps them out at half past midnight, shooing them with the broomstick through the double swing doors.

Get some sleep boys, he calls out, then turns back inside.

A'right Freeman, James hiccups. Atticus catches him and the lawyer laughs as he wobbles; together the two shuffle down the bar steps, and Atticus holds onto his arm while he finds his balance. James smiles appreciatively.

I'll have tha' report to you...some time 'morrow...g'night...

Atticus waves goodbye to his friend before going to untie Major's bridle, making low shushing noises when the mare starts shaking her neck.

'Know, took a while. Sorry girl.

He falls off the first time he tries to get onto the saddle, and Major snorts at where he lies groaning in red dust. He lets a minute pass before crawling back upright, pawing at a stirrup to hoist himself up. He pats the mare's neck in apology before swinging himself over the saddle in one shaky movement, catching himself just so to avoid eating dirt again.

The soft clinking of glass bottles catches his ear. Through the doors he watches Sammy re-stock the lopsided third shelf - home of his father's particular brand of whiskey, he thinks, burning holes into the back wall where his grandfather's portrait sits.

Major snorts impatiently.

Alright alright, Atticus clicks.

Let's go home.

* * *

Diana launches herself at her cousin, squealing in delight as he swings her around the way she'd always remembered.

Atticus!

Alright now Dee, let your cousin have a seat. Go on baby, dig in.

He pulls up the chair beside his not-so-little cousin, taking the hot plate his aunt passes with a soft thank you. They talk over eggs and bacon and just-burn toast, his aunt and uncle alternating in catching him up on the ebbs and flows of life in the South Side: there were no fewer than one or two hundred marriages, near as many funerals, a host of newborns and parents alike, three almighty shootouts in Mission Bridge by the canyons two summers before, and slews of businesses coming in - and going out. 

But not any of ours - this land knows how to take care of its' own, says George, proud.

Dee latches onto a lull in conversation, sharing her days at school, the odd jobs she's been doing for the shop, and how much she misses the hijinks she and Eugene Mobley used to get up to since he moved out of town the winter past.

You still working on those drawings? I still got all those you sent over to me. Dee's eyes light up

I actually have a few that got sent back, postman said they couldn't find you...

Why don't you go up and grab them now Dee? her mother prompts. 

She nods excitedly, nearly knocking over the jug of water as she excuses herself to make a dash up the stairs. Atticus smiles appreciatively at his aunt.

How's the house? I haven't been to see it since...

I've fixed it up some, restocked the place with a few orders from the General - now that was Thursday last. You know James Motley? Yes ma'am, the lawyer - he came by day before then too, went over some accounts and whatnot. I'm thinking of heading back up Main, see if I can't find any ranchers to help for the season.

_This_ season?

Yes ma'am.

George puts his fork down, sharing a look with Hippolyta. 

Son, don't you think that's a little...ambitious? I mean, markets opening up in less than a month and...well we have some money left from- from the farm but I doubt we'll be able to beat the Greens- hell even Benji Marshall's got enough to outbid us in the bloc-

Don't worry yourself about that Uncle George, Atticus wipes his mouth clean. It's early yet, and we still have a few silos worth of grain to sell off. Besides, I've some money saved myself, and it was a hard winter this past - I'm sure there's more'n a few ranchers wouldn't mind workin' in exchange for bread and board.

Atticus...George starts. He never gets the chance to ask his nephew about the money he supposedly has saved as his daughter comes bounding down the stairs. The small wooden chest nestled protectively in her arms looks fit to burst, the limits of the square clasp chafing against the reams of papers within. 

Come on Atticus! Let's lay it out in the parlor.

* * *

It goes like this: 

Atticus spends his days herding, training, and mending his cattle, ranchers, and farm.

Sheppard proved to be the most capable of the three he'd picked up at the cattle block and so became his de-facto right hand. Big Davis and Lil' O'Callaghan - two charmingly irate Irishwomen who claimed some complicated connection old Jack had yet to verify - he'd met in the aftermath of a street brawl outside the auction house. The boys from Grover's Dairy admitted as much to instigating, but not that they'd been bested by the meanest right hook Atticus had ever seen from a woman so small as Beth.

Beth - and my cousin Tilly, she'd introduced in a thick Londonderry drawl, wiping her bloodied fist before shaking Atticus' hand.

_When do we start_?

Arthur Cline was the last to join their little cavvy, happening onto the Ranch - completely by chance he'd admitted - in the cool evening while they were making dinner. Atticus had in fact mistaken him for his elder brother Pat, with whom he'd once been schoolmates, and caught himself in time to offer condolences. 

Marley'll show you to the stables, get your hoss fed and rested. 

When the pair return to the dining table, he goes over the particulars of their stock. Sheppard, having spent the whole Tuesday at the block and of a keen mind for cattle arithmetic, supplements him with information that Atticus missed during the sales. At Davis' prompting, he runs through a list of repairs that need tending to. O'Callaghan asks after the condition of their equipment, and Atticus gives the small woman a smile.

No matter, she says cheerily through a mouthful of beans. We can make do. 

And so a week of making do passes wherein fenceposts are patched and the ranchers learn to move with the herd. A routine sets, beginning at sunup with a hearty meal fixed by the ever-resourceful Arthur and ending with a round of drinks no one knows where Beth found the money to buy - though Atticus suspects she is exercising her hands on the bottle shelf in O'Malley's store.

It's an evening on the porch by himself when George comes by to inspect for progress. Major canters beside him - huffing happily as he gently pats her nose - and Atticus reports, praising the efforts of his humble crew.

I'm thinking of holding a welcome party, George announces presently. 

An official one that is - I know you've made a few rounds of town already. I've had inquiries from some old friends, people are curious to see how the Ranch is going - it'd be an opportunity to show folk that the Freemans are back in the saddle- 

He pauses to chuckle at his own joke. 

-anyhow, Hippolyta thinks it'd be good just to get some folk together, been some time since anybody had something to celebrate, what with the winter just passed... George shakes his head and clears his throat. What do you say, son?

Atticus considers it. When his nephew's silence elapses a minute, George reassures him not to worry - we've time yet to plan it, Hippolyta was thinking the first Sunday of next month? - patting Major's nose one last time before trekking back towards Main Street. 

* * *

Atticus darling, I'll be heading out of town all next week, and your Uncle will be busy running the shop - would you be a dear and take Dee home after school?

Yes ma'am.

* * *

Mr. Freeman! he hears, and it's young Eli Baker running up the dirt road, one arm waving for his attention. Major swings around, rearing back some as the boy comes up beside Atticus' boot.

What is it? Atticus frowns.

It's after three-o'clock sir, your- is as far as Eli gets before he starts coughing a fit, spluttering in the dust that Major kicks up as her rider breaks into a mad gallop. 

* * *

The drawer closes flush with a satisfied _click_ , and Leti hums at a job well done. Ruby's classroom, she reflects, is the very extension of her sister - which is to say painfully prim and proper.

Five rows of school desks occupy the center, each marked with the first and last names of her forty-odd pupils organized from youngest to eldest, front to rear. A few bookshelves run across the back wall, some divided into modular cubes for pencils and papers, the rest occupied by workbooks and a varied collection of reading material. Light filters through the three windows on the outer wall, beneath one of which sits the desk from where her sister teaches reading, writing, and the power of a good song.

Leti is just about done dusting off the C-Major scale running neat across the blackboard when the drumming of heavy boots echoes from the hallway. Through the door she sees a blur of a man rush into the classroom opposite, one hand grabbing onto the frame as he whips his head inside.

Dee?

She puts the duster down and claps her hands clean, smiling at the soft curse and kiss of teeth, picking up her purse where it hangs on the chair. She watches amusedly as he brings an exasperated hand to rest on his hip, pausing at the doorway. 

Can I help you, sir? 

Oh, he turns, slow-like, still looking around distractedly. Yes, ma'am, I was wonderin' if you'd know where my cousin...

It's called eye contact for a reason, she thinks, laughing nervously as she stares into the most soulful eyes Leti's seen in five years. She studies the high cheeks and strong chin, the slope of his nose, and the curve of his lip, face wrinkling at the tug of a memory she can't quite place. 

Miss Lewis, he breathes, and _oh_.

* * *

He'd put his foot in his mouth no less than eighteen times, Atticus laments - yet Freemans prevail.

It had been twenty minutes since they left Marshall's schoolhouse bound for Main Street. Major shuffles beside him, hooves dragging in the dirt; on his right is Leti, leading slightly, as if it were his arm tucked in the crook of her's and not the other way round. 

What did you get up to all those years away, he asks, mindful of his step, and she tells him about Warren Dandridge - how she tripped over herself following him out of town and into the train headed eastbound to once-distant cities and landed in the living rooms of the wealthy clients her father's business kept, teaching their children their A's and B's and C's. 

They were pleasant enough, but Ruby woulda had a fit she saw the way those little'uns behaved - I'm only glad I didn't have to deal so much with their parents, seeing as the things they were...funding wasn't exactly above board, if you catch my meaning. I managed the books too. All those ledgers - it was a real mess the first couple months on account of me not knowing the first thing about numbers - and there was this one time- well, the particulars aren't so important as the fact that I'm sure I near sank daddy's business into the ground.

She laughs.

I did enjoy it though, got to meet all kinds of folk, hear all kinds of stories. It's funny - the more you learn, the less you realize you know anything about anything at all.

Atticus hums in agreement, content to fill his thoughts with her sweet southern twang. He hears about the morning rush when the city heaves its' first breath. Afternoons spent in grand houses - old and new - where butlers waited on the hands and feet of five-year-olds. Candlelit evenings tucked away with ink and paper and math. 

It was good for a time, she says, dream-like. 

But as with many things concerning my father, it had to end. Operation went belly up after a few years, and I managed to scrape by with a little help from our rich friends who didn't want the hounds on our trail anymore'n we did ours, 'fraid as they were of being exposed and whatnot. Anyhow, after that I moved away from all the hustle and bustle, found myself a decent place near a public school that catered to the poor. I do miss those folk...

I'm sure they miss you too, he says with a smile.

The lull in conversation is neither awkward nor stifling. They listen to the chirp of summer cicadas as they stroll, feet rising and falling in tandem. Sometimes they'll veer off to the left, sometimes to the right. The first time they drift in opposite directions at once he loosens his arm, not expecting her fingers to clamp on his sleeve as she pulls herself back in line. Leti giggles; Atticus resolves to be an anchor.

All too soon the lone bell of the church rises to view, followed by the sharp roof of the General Store and Denmark Vesey's leaning upper rooms. Along the street the young and old ebb and flow, some jumping to the side as lamp jockeys scrabble up iron lanternposts with matchboxes in hand to light up the thoroughfare as the last rays of sunlight make their slow fade out. 

Atticus leads his mare to the hitching post outside the Post Office, and Major preens at every child that comes by with a pat and a shy hello, whinnying excitedly as she receives a sugar cube from a particularly generous stranger. 

Leti relents when Atticus insists on walking her all the way home, and bids Major a good night. 

* * *

Best go and thank Miss Baptiste for her kindness yesterday eve', Uncle George says sternly, and - though he'd called on her doorstep just that morning - Atticus nods, deferent.

(He had ridden straight to his uncle's house to check in on Diana, greeting his cousin with a small box of Whitman's Chocolate. Dee gave him the mother of all stink-eyes - reminding him all too well of his aunt's withering glare - before accepting the peace offering, going so far as to share a piece. 

What took you so long? I was waiting for- _ever_. Leastways Miss Baptiste is fun to be around - I heard her tell momma once that I was a 'pleasure to teach'. She let me play a little bit on her guitar while they- well, I'm not sure what, exactly. I think Miss Baptiste was talking about- oh! Miss Lewis was there too, her sister? Miss Lewis told me she and you used to go to Marshall's together and she's very pretty and smart and she just came back from New York and she's gonna be teachin' 'longside Miss Baptiste. 

Dee takes a breath.

Anyway, they must'a been talking about teacher stuff, 'cos next thing I know Miss Lewis is shooing us out the room and bein' reassuring-like to Miss Baptiste about cleanliness and Godliness. Where _were_ you anyway? 

Herding. 

Oh.)

Does Miss Baptiste still perform for folk's gatherings? Freely that is, he adds.

I believe so, yes - she hasn't made motion otherwise. Why do you ask?

Well. About that party, Atticus says.

George straightens in his seat, drafting pencil hanging in the air as he grins at his nephew. 

* * *

It goes like this: 

Atticus spends his week herding, working, and surveying his cattle, crew, and lands.

Sheppard will take point with the herd, Davis the creaky wrought-iron gate, Callaghan jumps in with the unbroken stallion, and Cline picks up where the ink on the ledger is still wet. Either way, he is given confident leave to ride the trail up to Marshall's Elementary - and if he makes off earlier and earlier with each passing day, they're wise enough to make no mention.

* * *

Hey Jack, have you noticed Mr. Freeman lately?

_Harrumph_.

Well, day before last when we were accounting for the ol' Ranch, something that'd take us a fair bit of time in normal course, he called up one of the cattlers - you know Arthur Cline - and got him to take over, which wasn't such a bad thing, suprisingly the boy's good for numbers and such- anyway, he did the same thing yesterday! After weeks of good routine... 

The Irishman lets a slow exhale of relief as he watches James Motley wander down the aisle, praying fervently for him to continue on out the front door.

...thought _maybe_ it was on account of some family emergency or other, but for him not showing an ounce of worry!

He curses.

And today do you know what I saw?

O'Malley stares.

_Two horses_! He was leadin' _two_ horses out the gates- whatever for! I asked Miss Sheppard if she could kindly explain where it is her employer has suddenly seen fit to disappear off to this week, but I suspect they haven't a clue either. School doesn't finish til three o'clock, and Mr. Freeman is out the door at quarter two! 

Are ye gonna buy _anyt'in'_ or _what_ boy? 

James stares, stunned.

A pack of _Iwan Ries_ , if you please.

* * *

The Freemans had been among the first pioneers to settle the land Major and her new friend - _this is_ Baldwin, _girl, play nice_ \- now grazed in. 

Beginning with the construction of the manor house some ways south of the mains, it grew into barns, stables, fields fenced in oak and wire for an assortment of hoofed tenants, a handful of storehouses a wise Freeman invested in somewhere along the way, and, most infamously, a watchtower that stood vigil over all.

I used to get green with envy at my brother. Used to come up here all the time with the other boys, 'fore they'd head home after day's work. Marvin said watching the sun - rise or set, it didn't matter - from up top was the thing he looked forward to most.

Atticus hums, tying up the reins of their horses around the post.

I haven't been inside yet - I imagine the mess is somethin' fierce.

Leti steps back as he jimmies the door open. It catches before swinging with a loud _creak_ , a shower of dust floating down. He sneezes.

The inside is as expected.

Well, it's only the ground floor, Leti offers with a shrug.

They get to wading through the heap of rusted tools, moth-eaten canvas sacks - pausing at what looks to be some strange invention a great aunt was likely responsible for - and pushing away other odds and ends that the farm apparently had at one point to clear the way. Atticus takes point and surges up the stairs, testing every panel and pointing out weak patches as he climbs. Leti pays little mind, strolling with the picture frames that cover almost every inch of the inner walls, studying each Freeman displayed.

She double-takes at a clean-shaven man in uniform holding a rifle, tracing a finger over the familiar planes of his face.

_You comin' Miss Lewis?_

The middle floor is filled with a haphazard of boxes stacked in no discernible order, some marked with names, others dates, and most only bearing a hastily scrawled "DO NOT THROW OUT" in angry red letters. He starts pushing some around - mindful not to disturb any hidden critters poised to strike - pausing at a box marked "Photographs". He drags it across to the center of the room, whistling at the trail it runs through the dirty floorboards and revising his list for the next run to O'Malley's.

Look, he says, proudly holding up a clunky brown book. Atticus swipes a hand across the cover, brow furrowing as he scans the faded blocky letters pressed into the weathered leather.

Old family album.

Sure enough the first few pages feature what Atticus gathers are the first of his ilk, all smiles and crowding a signpost marked South-Side; posed in front of a half-built house; standing with their Paints and Morgans and Appaloosas. He rubs at his eye while reading out each inscription, page after page, and a calm settles over his shoulders. Beside him Leti stirs, shuffling closer for a better look.

_Sampson_ she reads quietly, running a finger over the yellowing photograph that fills the next page.

Great-grandpa, Atticus supplies.

You're named for him, aren't you?

She ducks at the look he gives her.

I uh, remember from school. We were sharing family trees or some such.

He turns away to inspect his forebear, fingers drumming unevenly on the page.

He's from my mother's side.

That's right...I always thought it was a lovely name. You even look like him, you know - a matter of fact, I think it was his picture I saw in the hallway- he follows her gaze to where his namesake stands at attention -same nose and everything. Though he's much scarier lookin'.

I _was_ a scrawny thing, he allows with a huff.

You and your books, she teases.

Atticus, reminiscent, smiles.

* * *

That's the last of 'em!, Davis calls out through the upper window from where she'd just vaulted what Atticus dearly hopes was not an heirloom dresser. 

Here come the cavalry, Beth whistles, tipping her hat at the incoming wagons. She hails the riders to lead their coursers away from the huge pile that was once known as the second floor. Atticus throws in the last of the shattered wood, clapping the splinters off his hands. 

Beds and tables and dressers and what have you's are all accounted for, Arthur says, hopping off his mount and waving a sheet of paper in his hand. Atticus reads through the inventory twice before folding it up and tucking it into his shirt pocket, clapping his rancher on the shoulder.

Alright. You girls up for some buildin'? 

* * *

For a housewarmin', Eli Baker says with all the authority his nine years can muster, sliding the list and the cash he'd been gripping onto for dear life across the bumpy counter. Mr. Freeman asked me to tell you that it's on the first Sunday of the comin' month - and that he's set aside his finest bottle of rum.

Humph.

* * *

From her perch atop a lonely barstool, Diana observes

What seems to be the whole of the South Side is lost in drink and dance, and Dee cannot recall the last time she'd seen her parents so carefree, rollicking with happy abandon to Noah Johnson's parlor guitar. It's a cool night despite the crowd, her cousin having had the good sense to throw open all the doors and windows; she imagines they resemble a colony of ants, pouring in and out of every entryway. _Speak of the devil_ , she thinks, smiling as he comes into view. 

How're you enjoying yourself?

Well enough, Dee replies, leaning in for a hug. You ever seen 'em like that before? I'm surprised pa hasn't broken a hip yet.

Atticus laughs.

Night's still young. Why aren't you with the others outside? You're not half-bad at lacrosse.

She briefly considers the offer, egged on by a playful nudge on the shoulder. 

I'll go later. What about you? 

Hm? Getting a 'fill, he holds up the glass in one hand; Dee stares pointedly at the other. Alright now, he says slowly, it's not for me.

Her eyes light up, hopeful; she was thirteen now, and anyway she saw the Kelley children taking sips from a shared cup - young Charlie had just turned eleven the week past! 

No, peach- 

She pouts.

They're for- ah, Miss Lewis. 

Oh? I didn't know she was here. 

Just came in, he says, and Dee nods after him as he retreats for the kitchen.

The rest of the night is largely uneventful - _we woulda been_ sure _to win if you'd played, Berry!_ \- and by the time the numbers have dwindled down to a quarter what it was, Diana is about ready to fall asleep on the lounge. She scans the room, hoping to catch her ma's eye and plead exhaustion. Instead, she finds Miss Baptiste standing with her brother- Martin? Melvin? -and squints, following their line of sight to someplace out of view, wondering what on earth it could be her teacher is glaring sharp daggers at.

Curious, she stands.

A laugh, airy and sweet, rings through then, accompanied by the familiar baritone hum.

Oh. She smiles.

Dee! 

Her father, ever the master apparitionist, materializes out of thin air and squeezes a hand on her shoulder.

Ready to go, kiddo?

* * *

She loves to teach, to read, and to see things as they truly are. He loves to dream, to guide, and to put in an honest day's work. All this they share, as much of themselves as they can - and more, always more - until they aren't sure where the lines of one ends and the other starts.

* * *

So will you ask me?

Beg pardon? he starts.

Leti laughs freely.

Don't look so shocked Atticus - if you ask _real_ nice, I'll tell you why I came all the way back to this worn-down town. You've been dying to know - I can see it, right there- she points at his forehead, and Atticus ducks, hoping in vain that she'll take the disappearing sun as culprit for the rising heat in his cheeks. 

It may have crossed my mind to ask a mile back, he admits, staring at the toes of his boot. He scuffs them on the timber floor, leaning back on his heels so as not to crowd the little porch they dawdle on.

It makes no difference; she steps forward, leaning in conspiratorial-like, and Atticus' nose burns with the scent of coffee and chalk.

* * *

He is distracted by the slow circles she rubs on his thumb when Leti tells him that she will be going to New York for three weeks.

My pa- he sent a letter, I think he needs my help straightening out a few facts and setting a record straight. I'll be fine, I'm staying with an old friend in that town I told you about? In any case besides, it's nothing really serious - I'm sorry I'll miss the beginning of harvest.

Oh, he says. Atticus leans into the hand that cups his cheek, feeling the lines of concern that worry his face ease somewhat. 

Take me up to the station?

* * *

Dee is the first to catch her cousin's lowly countenance, but the last to find out why.

James, as usual, remains blissfully unaware.

The Berry's suspect and, like the ranchers four, keep to themselves - a trait that Eli Baker, to his delight, adopts.

He does not linger by Marshall's much for three weeks.

In the end, it is Jack O'Malley who says: _Post office is right across the street, boy._

* * *

I got your letter.

Yes.

I came as fast as I could.

Yes.

Atticus, I-

Would you- could you- that is-

_Yes._

* * *

Letitia is wed that late afternoon, grinning ear to ear, the Reverend Roberts leading with great command as their hands intertwine and do not let go.

* * *

A note to find a thicker blanket as the soreness blooms across his kneecaps is Atticus' last coherent thought.

He barely registers the creak of the floorboard, blind instinct gripping him. Leti tenses, gasps, and it's all the warning she has before he snaps into a maddening pace, some distant part of her brain giggling at the way Atticus resembles a slobbering puppy, mouth hung open just as hers forms a perfect 'o'.

_Leti_ , he says.

She thinks: _this is making love._

And a half-hour passes- (she thinks- she can't be su-) before Leti cries out, writhing helplessly while Atticus, ever greedy, buries himself once- twice more- and three times again. He collapses with a growl that shoots sparks up her spine. Atticus plasters himself to her chest, kissing up and around her neck, worrying her ear between his lips while she squeals, legs liquid and useless.

_Hell_ , Tic.

He latches onto the column of her throat.

Did you?...

I- you know... _damn_ well, Freeman...

He smiles into her skin, still panting, ghosting another kiss on the space above her heart.

* * *

Let's see: my uncle and aunt in the front row, him bawlin' his eyes and her hushin' him. 

Same with Ruby and Marvin, I imagine.

Dee would've insisted on carrying the rings.

Hm. And Eli the flowers?

James'd cheer him on too. Maybe the crew sits in the middle - Davis taking up that whole pew, Beth trying not to show any girly feelin' in her face as usual. Speaking of, Marley and Arthur have been lookin' _might_ -y comfortable together.

Is that so. 

Mhm. Atticus shifts himself, careful not to jog her head.

Your pa? he whispers against her temple, hand rubbing the arm that's draped across his chest, rising and falling with every breath. She smooths her palm up to his shoulders, lingers at his neck with light fingers, then back down to tuck against herself.

He'd have been the happiest I'd ever seen him, she sniffles.

Atticus pulls her close, and sighs and sighs and sighs.

* * *

It goes like this:

The summers burn fast, bringing with it hale herds and a happy household. The Freemans spend their days loving, teaching, and raising their children in the lands they call home.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give my thanks to the people who spurred me on to get this out and done with - y'all know who you are <3
> 
> \- George, Hippolyta, and Diana Berry sound one hundred times more adorable  
> \- Honestly this spiralled so far, I ended up writing double what I thought I would and probably have more to come, I do plan to return at some point to flesh it out more, but I hope for the most part it wasn't lacking  
> \- Blame nugget for Tree's last name  
> \- Time for bed, goodnight <3


End file.
